


Where the heart is

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Peter Rabbit (2018)
Genre: Bruises, Come Eating, Established Relationship, Frottage, Kilts, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Reunion Sex, Size Queen Thomas, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Rick comes home from a failed expedition. Thomas has a naughty surprise for him. Spoiler: it's a kilt.





	Where the heart is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starkickback](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkickback/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Там, где сердце](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063406) by [FixDestroy_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixDestroy_2018/pseuds/FixDestroy_2018), [Lenuchka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenuchka/pseuds/Lenuchka)



> Please read the tags for **content warnings**.

Thomas doesn't kiss him goodbye at the train station. He’s not a fan of what he calls public display of affection; he thinks it's distasteful. Still: he clasps Rick’s hands—hands that caressed him so well, stroked him everywhere—keeps his palms there, and looks Rick in the eye, squinting in the sun.

“Come back to me,” he says, voice low so only Rick can hear him. “Come back please.”

“Always, always,” Rick promises.

“Preferably, in one piece,” Thomas adds, briefly rubbing his knuckles, still sore and bruised from a close encounter with a giant anteater.

“They’ll mail you what’s left of me in a jar,” Rick says, showing teeth. Thomas pinches him, he swats his hand in turn; this is what they need right now, a bit of teasing and fooling around, so neither of them is thinking about Antarctica.

Antarctica; three months, at least. If Rick is lucky. If the weather spares him, and the mountaineer he’s accompanying doesn't die.

“I’ll store your ash-jar in the pantry,” Thomas says. “When I’m tired of being a widow I’ll replace your mortal remains with pickles and find myself a wealthy husband.”

“Amen to finding love again, no to pickles,” Rick requests.

Thomas leans closer. “I’ll marry a pickle for nothing but its money,” he says, a bit too passionately.

 

***

 

Two months in Rick cries with relief when he's given boiled potatoes with a side of pickles in the rescue camp. He and the mountaineer lost their boat in an accident that seemed more like a group effort with all the methodical miscalculations, and they were stranded on an iceberg for twenty-three hours. It was melting at an alarming speed.

His mouth full of vinegar, he asks if he could use the burner phone.

 

***

 

“Nothing but fucking penguins.”

“Is that so?” Thomas asks. He sounds like home.

Rick watches the frozen landscape from his cabin: too-blue water, the sky the color of lavender. Something is melting inside of him, now that being eaten alive by a hungry orca is not on the list of the top ten events that are likely to happen, now that the rescue ship is rocking him and Thomas’ voice is like a lullaby.

“It’s a shame about the boat,” Rick says. “Got some cool pics though.”

“I’m sorry to hear that the expedition didn't quite go as planned.”

“Yeah. Right. It was a total flop. I told Isabella not to lose hope. We can reframe her story. Stories about victories and ugh, conquerors are boring anyway. We can make it about mother nature humbling humankind.”

“I can relate to that,” Thomas says darkly.

Rick doesn’t know all the details of his past. He doesn’t ask; Thomas has his own peculiar way of revealing things, slowly unfolding like a flower in careful bloom, and then there’s a burst of secrets.

“Will be home soon,” Rick says. “Remind me what season it is in Windermere?”

There’s a small beat. “It’s autumn,” Thomas tells him softly, and adds, “fall,” as if Rick needs an American translation.

Rick cannot help but grin. “Oh yeah! God, I love fall,” he says. When he thinks of the season he no longer pictures the golden trees and pumpkin patches of Pennsylvania, where he grew up, but fall in Thomas’ garden: fiery leaves and evergreens, tea on the wrought iron bench they bought from IKEA together, the fingerless gloves Thomas is prone to wear.

“I’ll make sure to tell fall you confessed your love,” Thomas deadpans.

“I love you too?” Rick hastens to add.

“Too late,” Thomas says. “I’m heartbroken now. I’m just a kept man to you.”

The fact is, Thomas could have every reason to be jealous of natural occurrences; Rick loved nature before him, and keeps running back into her arms— _missed you, missed you, how have you been._

There’s always a story to tell. Until he met Thomas, he didn’t care much about his own narrative.

 

***

 

This is their shared history: Rick had a commission from the Wordsworth Society to follow the poet’s trail and photograph the Lake District for a new volume of the _Lyrical Ballads_ ; Thomas was just making the most of his weekend with the aid of binoculars and a journal. He stood in a puddle in polished shoes, a Burberry-coat draped over his shoulders, and after they discussed directions, he told Rick about all the birds he spotted—he didn’t know any of their names, but he had strong opinions about their _avial performance_ and _vocal qualities_.

Thomas was an absurd creature, maybe even ridiculous, but Rick was instantly fascinated by him. He was like a will-o’-the-wisp, making travelers stray from their path with his charming chitchat. Rick wanted to follow him back to Fairyland, or, if he was human, get back to town, treat him to a coffee, hear his story; but Rick had a job to do—he couldn’t. It took all his courage, but he asked for his email.

“I, um, travel a lot,” he said, “I could help with your bird-watching.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s cheating.”

But Rick would send him photos of macaws and toucans, owls and mandarin ducks; Thomas would write a review, imitating the style of aloof bloggers. Rick started to sneak in selfies, posing with puffins and peacocks; Thomas would send pictures of his appalled face holding up his journal with new entries such as _subtlety is key: rainbow-bird with gay name overdoing it this Pride-month_. They began to talk more and more, and Thomas began wearing less and less clothing in the selfies; Rick matched this slow striptease as they made their roundabout way to horny sexts and dickpics.

They set up a date in London. Rick was excited about the sex, but he was more excited to see Thomas again.

 

***

 

Rick sends him a photo of Emperor penguins huddled together for warmth.

 _Plumage too formal,_ Thomas writes back. _Bet the snob bastards went to Eton._

Rick also sends a picture of himself on the plane, looking miserable as he munches on an orange, but he knows Thomas will be happy to see him. The answer is almost immediate: Thomas in a fluffy bathrobe wearing a facemask and drinking Chardonnay, dye setting in to mask his ginger roots with a more _professional_ shade, and the text saying _, been doing rather poorly without you, dear_. Rick knows it’s only partly a joke, and resists the urge to hijack the plane so they can go faster.

He knows how to fly them.

 

***

 

He takes a shower in the London flat of a stranger. Thomas doesn’t understand his barter system with the rest of the world: if Rick needs something, he just asks for it very nicely. He’s slept on more couches than hotel beds, never owned a shirt that wasn’t somebody else’s first, and drives a minibus he exchanged for a vintage camera.

He towels off, dries his hair, pays the stranger with foreign coins he collects. Gets on the train smelling good because Thomas is very practical about hygiene, and Rick will never disrespect it, although he’s used to foregoing certain luxuries of civilization in exchange for something far more exciting than clean socks.

Thomas is not like him. He doesn’t care for adventure; he hates holidays, and uses his Christmas break for home-projects and neatening the garden. Rick considers himself pretty laid-back; Thomas is fussy, and has a temper. Rick has a number of friends, some relations dating back to kindergarten; Thomas only has his ex, Bea. Strangely, Rick is the one who doesn’t communicate well, he just vibes with people and hopes for the best, but can’t share half of what’s going on in his head; Thomas, on the other hand, will yell at the garden if he thinks there’s an issue to settle, and could small-talk with virtually anybody for all eternity.

Rick gets fidgety as the train arrives at the station; it’s absurd to be here again after the immeasurable distance separating him from Thomas. Not a full twenty-four hours ago he was half a world away: now he’s here, and here to stay. He drops his duffel bag twice, with all his equipment inside, but he cannot even find it in him to care. He hails a cab—he couldn’t trust Thomas to pick him up seeing as the last time he did they nearly ended up in a ditch, because, as it turns out, “I’m happy to be home” blowjobs can be rather distracting.

Jet-lag threatens to overwhelm him in the backseat, but his excitement is stronger. He watches the dark, shapeless landscape pass with such a thrill as if Windermere was the most exotic place he’s ever been to. Fretting with his hands, he thinks about how to greet Thomas: a touch, a warm hug, cupping his face to pull him into a kiss, or just looking into his eyes, marveling over what he did to deserve him. Thomas will be tired from relaxing, no work to give him energy on a Sunday. Rick will have to be gentle and patient, tempt him for a cuddle; Rick prefers to be the little spoon, but maybe he’ll give the honor to Thomas now, because they’ve both been through so much these past months.

Then Monday morning: Thomas’ favorite time of the week—no doubt he’ll be up early, making a full English when Rick is still so groggy he cannot even pronounce the word coffee. He’ll take a brisk shower while Thomas is busy, because two is the minimal number of showers in McGregor manor. That’s when Thomas is likely to join him. He’ll say that they have to be quick, because the food is getting cold. Rick will still drag it out, let Thomas luxuriate in his touches, give him the attention he deserves, fuck him so well he’ll be smug and pliant the whole day. Make him want round two, as soon as he gets home, finds Rick working on the sofa. Thomas will climb into his lap, say he just missed him, no need to put the laptop away, he’ll behave, but in five minutes he’ll be squirming and grinding against him in the most delicious ways and won’t keep still until he’s pinned on a cock.

Rick subtly adjusts himself in his jeans. Joke is, he was never even _that_ into sex. He liked the connection and the sensation, sure, but realized early it was something fleeting and risky, not worth the trouble in most cases; he was simply too busy for a committed relationship and had a hand to keep him company anyway.

And now he has this.

The cab pulls to a stop and he’s aroused by the mere sight of the sturdy fence of Thomas’ garden. It’s a scene of dirty wonders. It’s cloud nine, heaven and a haven. He pays quickly, gets his shit, walks to the gate on trembling legs. His heart hammers in his chest, so loud he’s sure Thomas will hear him. The light is on in the kitchen. He could hold on for two months, but cannot do these last seconds—he wants to be sitting by the table already, he wants to be halfway into his tale, have Thomas caress his calf with his socked feet while he pretends to be innocently engrossed in whatever Rick is saying.

He stops by the door. Something is not right. Sure: the manor is bigger than he remembers, looming and imposing, but dimensions tend to escape him when he’s away. It’s the smells, he realizes: wet dirt, crisp air, fallen leaves, and something else—smoke; just a whiff of it, but now that he focuses his senses, he can also hear the soft crackle of fire. He rounds the house, careful like a burglar, and finds Thomas in the back garden by a campfire, watching the sky and then turning to him slowly, starlight still in his eyes.

“Hey there,” Rick says, then immediately curses himself. This is not what he was meant to say at all; it was supposed to be something _meaningful_ and romantic, but Thomas smiles at him as if he just heard the most wonderful declaration.

“Hey there yourself,” he says. He’s wrapped in a blanket, roasting marshmallows on a stick. Rick spots a picnic basket next to him, with a thermos and two tin cups in it.

“You made cocoa?” he asks, venturing closer, finding his place next to Thomas on a log. He appreciates that Thomas doesn’t jump up to greet him, that there are no cakes or balloons; that every time he comes home they pick up right where they left off. Thomas has his own life to live, he won’t spend it doing nothing but waiting for Rick. It’s not Rick’s _responsibility_ to make it happy; he’s content even without him, and tickled pink when he’s back.

There’s that smile: satisfied, self-assured, like he personally carried Rick home on his shoulders.

“I ate most of the marshmallows,” he says, sounding proud of himself.

“Aw, but you left me _some_.” Rick digs into the bag, producing three pieces. He nearly impales himself on the skewer, he’s so focused on Thomas’ thigh pressed to his. He’s mad at himself for putting on jeans, or any item of clothing, really; fuck the plaid shirt, bomber jacket, and beanie, no matter that Thomas likes him best when he looks like a lumberjack, he should be _naked_ , they both ought to be.

Thomas is wearing an expensive-looking brown sweater beneath the blanket. The rest is obscured. “I do have some self-restraint,” he says, and although he’s talking about the marshmallows, Rick takes it as a sign that maybe tearing off his sweater would be ill-timed.

As it is, he sets the stick aside and just gives Thomas a kiss, a peck on the lips—but neither of them has the heart to break it. Thomas opens his mouth and Rick licks into the welcoming, sweet heat, careful not to jab Thomas with his huge nose or even bigger glasses. Thomas makes a sound at the back of his throat, and he can’t help it: he leans into the kiss fully.

They’re both starved. They eat each other up, careful little laps followed by hungry bites and Thomas sucking on his tongue. And the hands: Thomas grabs two fistfuls of his hair, pulls him in deeper, while Rick grips his hips, the lovely bones digging into his palms.  He wants to fuck Thomas; hold him like this and fuck him on his hands and knees, make him moan his name. He reminds himself that both of them are exhausted, that he just got back, there’ll be plenty of time, better opportunities and not to mention, lube at hand. He pulls back, almost reverent, and then he notices it. A flash of skin.

“What are you wearing?” he asks. Thomas doesn’t answer, makes no movement; he lets Rick take the blanket off of him. He’s wearing a kilt.

“It’s St. Andrew’s day,” he says, clearly enjoying the befuddlement on Rick’s face. “Thought I might celebrate my Scottish heritage.”

“And this sudden urge of patriotism just so happened to uh, coincide with my return,” Rick says, looking him over. He’s achingly hard in his Levi’s. He’ll have to jerk off before going to bed. Maybe Thomas would love to watch.

Maybe Thomas didn’t dress up like this because all he wants to do is watch.

There’s fire in Thomas’ gaze; his lips are sticky with sugar when Rick kisses him again, muting his poor excuse of _happening_ on the kilt this morning. He slides his hands between Thomas’ knees; they part for him invitingly, Thomas’ milky thighs soft to the touch, his cock rock fucking hard. Rick grips it as he kisses Thomas’ neck and whispers against the wet bruise he sucks there. “No underwear, huh?”

Thomas mewls as he twists his cock in his dry, calloused palm. “Not in front of the wildlife!” he gasps.

“What wildlife?” Rick grumbles, but stills his movements. He looks over Thomas’ shoulder: the night is dark and endless, the circle of fire the only place illuminated, the only place that matters.  

Thomas clings to his neck, his eyes round with want and fear. “Animals,” he whispers. “They’re everywhere and they’re sentient.”

“Of course they’re sentient. They still don’t know what we’re uh. About to…” He gives Thomas’ cock a hesitant tug. Thomas’ hips buckle, cock rubbing up against Rick’s palm. Rick can’t see anything from the kilt, and it’s maddening.

“They know, they do it too. I suppose. They have babies… Anyways, they know _more_ than they let on.”

“So no sex in the garden?” Rick asks, and gives another careful squeeze to his engorged shaft, which makes Thomas gasp and shudder. “Not even a little fooling around?”

“I’m not _opposed to_ —I just don’t want them to—”

“Surely, if they’re that intelligent, they’ll understand and uh, respect your privacy. Give you some space. Look away. _Poor Mr. McGregor,_ they’ll say. _Let him have fun, nobody’s touched him in months_ —”

Thomas groans, holding on tighter. “As a matter of fact, ah, I don’t suppose they care that much—”

“Then what’s the hold-up?” Rick teases his thumb over the slit, nudging it gently. Precome sticks to his fingertip. Fuck, he missed sex. No jerking off when you’re traveling with a lady. No jerking off where your balls would freeze instantly, for that matter. He’s been craving this with an intensity he didn’t allow himself to feel; but he’ll stop if Thomas tells him.

He doesn’t. He’s watching the outline of Rick’s hand, resuming its movement under the kilt, his breaths shallow and weak.

“Bloody hell,” he says. “It’s just your fingers and already—”

“Want them in you?” Rick offers.

“On me,” Thomas says. “Maybe it’s less obvious that way.”

“Are you really that afraid?”

“Self-conscious, more like. Exposed.”

Rick tugs at the kilt, making it slide up an inch on Thomas’ pale thighs. “Because it’s your first time wearing something like this, isn’t it?” he asks; he can guess the answer. He understands it now: the kilt, the campfire, the whole charade. “You wanted to do something, how should I  put it—I think you wanted to try something daring. For me.”

“And also for myself,” Thomas corrects.

The fire’s soft glow and the dancing shadows look amazing on him. Rick marvels at it, stroking Thomas’s cock gently, gently. “You planned it so well,” he says. “Such a lovely surprise, Thomas.”

He feels him shiver as his cock twitches at the praise. “I just hope nobody’s watching.”

“Because you didn’t plan for how bared it’d make you feel, right?” Rick asks. “What about this, what if we made it even.”

“Even?” Thomas asks back, a bit choked-off. He loves fair play. He also loves petting.

“Get on the blanket,” Rick says, letting go of him with a pang of regret. Thomas hurries to obey, jumps to his feet, marshmallows and cocoa quite forgotten. He makes sure that the blanket is not creased, and then spreads out on it lewdly, and opens his legs; the kilt obscures what Rick longs to see: the hardness of him, that pink little cock begging to be fondled.

Rick’s never been obsessed with anyone’s genitalia before. He was always of the opinion that cunts and dicks were both a bit funny-looking, and tasting them was where the fun began; but lately he just has to think in passing of the foreskin pulled back from the glistening head of Thomas’ cock, or his tight ass dripping with lube, and it’s guaranteed he won’t be able to think of anything else until he gets his hands on them.

He peels off his jacket and shirt unceremoniously. Thomas is watching him, groping his own chest, which is the cutest thing ever. He can get so impatient, needy and demanding, squirming to be touched so he can feel appreciated just for a moment, just as long as he moans prettily and comes easily.

Rick wants to make sure the kick Thomas gets from praise will last him a bit longer than that. “Look at you,” he says, standing above him, “so beautiful, you’re gorgeous. You waited for me, you’ve been so patient, Thomas. I don’t even know what to do with you. Good boys like you deserve a reward. What would you have me do?”

“Frottage,” Thomas says with an adorable lack of hesitation.

Rick gets to his knees, slow, measured. “You want to rub your cock on mine?” He makes sure Thomas’ legs bracket his hips just so. He’s still wearing his jeans. Thomas reaches for the zipper, tugs at it.

“I waited for that cock,” he grits. Rick grins at that, reaches for his glasses to put them aside, but Thomas says, “Leave them on.”

“Oh? Looks like someone has quite detailed plans. What should happen next?”

“I kept thinking about this, so, naturally, I considered the minutiae details,” Thomas tells him, fumbling to get Rick’s cock out of his pants.

“So you have lube and all,” Rick guesses, earning a scoff.

“Do I look like a man who doesn’t have lube on his person? Basket.”

Rick likes to think that nobody could tell how much the town’s friendly toy seller enjoys getting it up the ass, that a tight-laced former Harrods employee loves being eaten out afterwards, not letting Rick miss even a droplet of come—or maybe it’s all too obvious, and that’s what’s so thrilling about it.

Thomas gets Rick’s cock in his clever hand, pumps it like an expert. The air is chilly, but the campfire grants them all the warmth they need, and Thomas’ fist envelops him in heat.

“Weren’t you about to get the—”

“I’m on it,” Rick says. “Give me a minute.”

Thomas allows himself a victorious little smile and a teasing tug. “I reckon nobody else could make you like this,” he says. “Nobody else in the whole world but me.”

“Of course not, you’re special.” Rick wishes he had more words for it: _you’re Thomas_. He wishes he could express what just being near him does to him. Thomas looks at him with pupils blown wide, as if he could understand how he feels anyway. He’s painfully beautiful in that moment, framed by the light of flames, legs closed around Rick’s hips and the kilt—infuriatingly—still mostly in place.

Rick gets the lube.

He pulls the sweater off Thomas. The sight of that chest is his reward for coming home in one piece like he promised; now he has the privilege of looking at those little nipples, pink, peaked, and the soft curve of Thomas’ stomach. He laps at Thomas’ left nipple, flicking his tongue out and teasing the nub like Thomas taught him while he lubes both of them up.

The artificial scent of peaches fills everything. Rick can no longer eat ice cream or candy without getting turned on, because they smell like the lube Thomas always uses. He’s a man of habits: he buys the same soap, shampoo, aftershave; he’s _loyal_ to brands and products, which has the unfortunate consequence that when his stuff gets damaged he feels like it’s a betrayal of his blind trust. Rick has seen him cry over a pair of shoes when the leather got creased. He takes care not to get the kilt smudged, lifts it up with his clean hand, lets it fan out over Thomas’ trembling stomach.

“Like this?” he asks, sliding his cock over Thomas’; Thomas gasps, throws his head back.

“Oh yes,” he sighs. The second thrust misses, so does the third, they’re both too hard, and Rick went to town with the lube. Thomas gets them in his fist. “Oh my,” he says, “oh god, you’re so thick, I can’t even close my fingers around you—”

“Around us,” Rick says, pushing down and forward. “I’m pretty sure your uh, contribution helps. Need a hand?”

“No, I ah— Let me just enjoy this, let me just— Your monster of a cock, you’re positively humongous—”

Rick lets Thomas revel in his size kink, or whatever this is about. Grips his hips, holds him down, looming over him with his strong shoulders, wide chest: this is what Thomas needs of him, so he can be this, _physically intimidating_ or what have you, while they both know that he’s just a nerd with a camera who likes hiking and exercise.

The way Thomas claws at his back, arches his chest so they’re pressed together everywhere awakens something wild in him, makes him groan and grunt with each heavy trust. His hair hangs down, tickling Thomas’ face who just _loves_ it, licks at a lock half-crazed, puts it in his mouth, then Rick’s beard is next—he rubs his cheek against it, purring. He once told Rick he loves the burn he gets from his facial hair and begged him never to shave. He loves his big ears and his crooked teeth, his moles, his injuries. He keeps telling him these things, _I love this, I love that, I love you. I love how well you take care of me._

They fit so well together, as if they were made to do nothing but this, cling to each other and rub their cocks, race toward a too-soon orgasm that’ll only leave them craving for more. The slapping, squelching sounds they make together should be embarrassing—Rick has always been a bit self-conscious about those—but Thomas just frowns at them, and it’s funny and endearing.

He keeps bucking up, so Rick keeps pressing him down, hoping it’ll bruise, because Thomas loves bruises, wears them proudly like jewelery, keeps stealing glances on all the marks Rick leaves on him. Rick tightens his grip, thinks he can feel the yellow bloom of a swelling, thinks _I’ve been here_ , how Thomas is an entire world— _his_ world—his favorite place to visit, because he belongs here.

Sweat glistens on Thomas’ forehead, his chest. Rick grinds down harder; he won’t rest until Thomas is a _mess_ , that’s what they both like best. The friction on his cock is delicious, makes his whole body hot and tingly, and every time he feels Thomas’ cock twitch against his own it’s like a new wave of shock. He wants to make him come so much, but he wants to keep doing this forever, rock together mindlessly, urged on by some base instinct.

By the light of the fire and with the stars above them it’s easy to imagine they’re doing something ancient and sacred, yet it still feels like a new discovery—like they’re the first humans ever doing this, discovering a secret not meant from them. A bite from the forbidden apple. Rick can almost taste it on Thomas’ lips.

“I’m so close,” Thomas whispers to him.

Rick can tell: when he pulls back to look down at Thomas he’s a wreck of nervous trembles, mouth slack, eyes fluttering shut and hair a mess. His grip on their cocks loosens, so Rick bears down heavily, really putting his weight into it, fucking down so hard they inch up on the blanket with every push, and then Thomas cries out. It’s a soft, almost pleading sound; Rick holds him through it, hushes him with a calming kiss as Thomas’ come spills over his cock helplessly, coating the both of them.

“I’ve got you,” Rick says, rocking his hips to keep the rhythm, help Thomas ride the pulses of his orgasm. “I’m here.”

Thomas blinks away tears as he looks up at him, flushed and dazed. “Could you please come on my face?”

Rick is not about to deny this wish. Thomas is too boneless to move, so he climbs over him, knees bracketing his neck; the angle is awkward, so Rick turns as if they were sixty-nineing (oh, beautiful memories) but doesn’t put his cock in Thomas’ mouth; he just starts jerking himself as requested. However, Thomas’ cock is in his direct line of sight, and so is the wrinkled kilt hugging his bruised hips. Rick can’t resist; he dips down and starts lapping up Thomas’ come while his hand never stops moving.

Thomas moans, shudders; he must be oversensitive, but Rick knows how much he loves teasing, pushing his limits, so he keeps at it, with broad, flat strokes of his tongue until he comes with a grunt, come splattering over Thomas’ face.

He tries his best not to collapse; with all his remaining strength and dignity he climbs off Thomas, lies down next to him, rolls onto his back. They’re both staring at the night sky, panting and shaking, fingers interlaced.

Thomas turns to him. “There’s a little...come on your glasses,” he says, reaching out to brush it away, then thinking better of it.

“There’s come all over your face,” Rick retorts. He wishes he had his camera. It’d be a lovely addition to their personal collection. He’ll make Thomas pose in his kilt for sure.

“I hear it’s good for the skin,” Thomas says, adjusting his hair as if he was just having a spa-day, not lying in the garden drenched in his boyfriend’s come. Rick grins at him, rolls to his side, starts licking it off. Thomas frowns, but lets him do it, then whispers softly, “To think what I made of you—you used to be such a shy man.”

“Having regrets?” Rick asks, finishing off with a last brush of his tongue. Soon, Thomas will get up, fill the tub, scrub down the both of them, every square inch of skin. It’s inevitable, so they linger in the mess just a little longer, saliva drying on Thomas’ skin and the acid taste of come filling Rick’s mouth. Somehow, it’s not gross.

“I have no regrets when it comes to you,” Thomas muses. “I tend to make good decisions.”

“And I was one?”

“Evidently.” Thomas reaches for the hem of the kilt, then he must remember the state he’s in, because instead of covering up, he shimmies out of it until he’s completely, gloriously naked. Rick still has his jeans clinging to him awkwardly.

“Even though I’m never home?” Rick presses on, missing several beats. Thomas looks at him quizzically.

“You’re here now. Did I make you feel bad about the expedition? Rick, I know your job is important to you. Believe me, _I_ know.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, not entirely convinced. He feels like his place is here, in Windermere, with such an urgent, disarming quality he can hardly breathe. He could have this. He could _stay_. Live with Thomas permanently, because right now McGregor manor is not really a home, more like a drop-off point, where he stores everything he has, but then he’s on the road again, where his _worldly possessions_ become meaningless, where it doesn’t fucking matter that he has a coffee maker and his own chair in Thomas’ kitchen, because he has no access to them.

Home is Thomas himself.

And he keeps leaving him. He already knows he’ll do it again, even with this intense yearning in his chest, even though all he wants to do now is cling on, because tomorrow somebody will tell him their dream, _I saw your kickstarter, your article, your Facebook, your whatever, or maybe I got your number from National Geographic, and I want to cross the Australian desert with camels, I want to climb icebergs, I want to see what’s in the ocean, go to a rainforest, discover what’s left of them_ , and he’ll say, _let’s do it_. He’ll think of the cause, because there’s always a cause—awareness of global warming, people living in poverty, or just making somebody happy, and he’ll say, _this is my part, this is what I can do to make the world a better place,_ and he’ll put on his boots and leave his own world behind. Leave Thomas.

“Remember the first thing you said to me?” Thomas asks him. “The very first thing.”

He’s beautiful like this, well-fucked and satisfied, and it’s Rick’s fault he can’t be like this every day. He’s not even willing to have somebody else. Fill those lonely days. He just waits and waits.

“I said hi,” Rick mumbles, gaze flicking over Thomas’ face.

He scowls. “No, you didn’t, and I thought it was quite rude. No. You didn’t greet me, you said, ‘I’m just passing through.’”

“I asked for directions. We started chatting. You told me about bird spotting.”

“Yes,” Thomas says, a fond smile playing at his lips. He touches Rick’s face, thumb under his chin. “But first, this: ‘I’m just passing through.’ I _understand_. I’ve made my peace with that.”

Rick kisses him. For a little while, they stay in the garden. Thomas tells him they don’t have to pretend they’ll never have to be anywhere else. But for now, they’re right where they want to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to the brilliant [starkickback](http://starkickback.tumblr.com/) who came up with this ship and gave me a prompt for the fic ("not in front of the animals!") - thank you for your support, cute headcanons and enthusiasm!
> 
> Also, a million thanks to [bioticnerfherder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticnerfherder.tumblr.com/) for betaing!
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@longstoryshortikilledhim](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/)


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